Perhaps my restless soul, tired with pursuit

Of mortal beauty, seeking without fruit

Contentment there, which hath not, when enjoyed,
Quenched all her thirst, nor satisfied, though cloyed,
Weary of her vain search below, above

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In the first Fair may find the immortal Love,
Prompted by thy example, then no more
In moulds of clay will I my God adore;
But tear those idols from my heart, and write
What his blest Spirit, not fond love, shall indite;
Then I no more shall court the verdant bay,
But the dry leafless trunk on Golgotha;

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And rather strive to gain from thence one thorn,
Than all the flourishing wreaths by laureats worn.
Thomas Carew.

LXXXI

THE FLOWER.

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! e'en as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away,

Like snow in May,

As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivelled heart Could have recovered greenness? It was gone

Quite under ground; as flowers depart

To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together

All the hard weather,

Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power, Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell.

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And up to heaven in an hour; Making a chiming of a passing bell. We say amiss,

This or that is:

Thy word is all, if we could spell.

Oh, that I once past changing were,

Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,

Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither:
Nor doth my flower

Want a spring-shower,

My sins and I joining together.

But while I grow in a straight line,

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Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline:

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What frost to that? what pole is not the zone

Where all things burn,

When Thou dost turn,

And the least frown of thine is shown?

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And now in age I bud again,

After so many deaths I live and write;

I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my only Light,
It cannot be

That I am he,

On whom thy tempests fell at night.

These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
Which when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.

Who would be more,

Swelling through store,

Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.

George Herbert.

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LXXXII

GOD UNSEARCHABLE.

Weigh me the fire; or canst thou find
A way to measure out the wind;
Distinguish all those floods that are
Mixt in that watery theatre;

And taste thou them as saltless there
As in their channel first they were;
Tell me the people that do keep
Within the kingdoms of the deep;
Or fetch me back that cloud again,
Beshivered into seeds of rain;

Tell me the motes, dust, sands, and spears
Of corn when summer shakes his ears;
Show me that world of stars, and whence
They noiseless spill their influence :
This if thou canst, then show me Him
That rides the glorious Cherubim.

Robert Herrick.

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LXXXIII

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ,
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
And to our high-raised phantasy present
That undisturbèd song of pure concent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne
To Him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee;
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted angel-trumpets blow;

G

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And the Cherubic host in thousand quires

Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,

With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms

Singing everlastingly :

That we on earth, with undiscording voice,

May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportioned sin

Jarred against Nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made

To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood,

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In first obedience and their state of good.
Oh may we soon again renew that song,

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And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
To his celestial consort us unite,

To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!

John Milton.

LXXXIV

THE RAINBOW.

Still young and fine! but what is still in view
We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new.
How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye
Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry!
When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot,
The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot
Did with intentive looks watch every hour

For thy new light, and trembled at each shower!
When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair,
Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air:
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours
Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers.
Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie
Of thy Lord's hand, the object of his eye!

IO

5.

When I behold thee, though my light be dim,
Distant and low, I can in thine see Him,
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne,
And minds the covenant betwixt all and One.

Henry Vaughan.

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LXXXV

L'ALLEGRO.

Hence, loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,

In Stygian cave forlorn,

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell,

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Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,

And the night-raven sings;

There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks,

As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But come, thou Goddess fair and free,

In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,

And by men, heart-easing Mirth;
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,

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With two sister Graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore:

Or whether (as some sager sing)

The frolic wind that breathes the spring,

Zephyr, with Aurora playing,

As he met her once a-maying,

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There on beds of violets blue,

And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,

Filled her with thee, a daughter fair,

So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

Jest, and youthful Jollity,

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,

Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles,

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee

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